Why Do You Like Me?
by aleeeson
Summary: One rainy night he asks her the whole truth, and in return gets an unexpected answer. A very cute Troyella oneshot .. and one of my personal written favorites :D


**A/N: **I think you'll really like this one. I haven't written in ages, and I thought I could grace you all with this sweet little oneshot of Troy & Gabriella.

Enjoy!

_"Love is always weird. But that's why it's so great."_

**Why Do You Like Me? **– by hiallyson

Troy and I were sitting alone in his room on that rainy Friday evening, talking and watching _Emeril_ on the TV. I lay resting on his bed, spread out comfortably, while quietly he sat on the edge, a pen and notebook in hand, writing a song. When Troy was in a relaxed, dreamy mood like this, I knew better than to bother him. But I watched, like always, while he scribbled down the lyrics to a song I knew I would love.

We'd been together for a full year and a half, ever since the last few months of our junior year when I transferred to East High School in Albuquerque from San Diego, California. Admittedly, it was "love at first sight"—well, high school love, anyway. It couldn't be explained, like the scientific theories we learned in class. Simply put, Troy was amazing. I've never met a guy quite like him before; so sincere, sweet, funny, and down-to-earth. Honestly, a guy like that is hard to find.

But I'd found him. Sitting on the corner of his bed, writing chords and verses, things straight from his heart. I can't explain how I felt that night, alone with him in his room. It was an incredible feeling, like we were infinite.

"And you add a pinch of pepper—BAM! Like this!" Chef Emeril shouted on the television screen, startling both my train-of-thought and Troy's lyrics. We both looked up, grinning, and my stomach ached from wanting to laugh so badly.

Troy asked, still smiling, "Jeez, Gabs, what are you _watching_?"

"I'm trying to learn how to cook," I told him easily, smartly.

He chuckled, the cute grin still caught on his face. "Oh please, Gabriella. You can't cook for dear life." He was teasing, and I loved it.

"Hey! Remember, _I_ was the one who invented microwave popcorn."

"Well yeah, because microwaveable foods are the only thing you can actually make!" Troy replied, now laughing. I made a face—of course, as much as I hated to admit it, this was true about me—and Troy walked over, scooping my frail body into his arms. He pulled me to my feet, grinning, and said, "C'mon, let's go into the kitchen. Screw Emeril, _I'll_ show you how to cook."

Gosh, I remember thinking; this is the perfect way to spend Friday night, alone in the house cooking with your boyfriend. Perfect, absolutely perfect.

Still smiling, we made our way to Troy's large island-kitchen, where he was going to teach me how to properly cook. Troy wasn't a world-class chef, but he had his specialties. Like fillet mignons, and the famous crème Brule he'd learned from his good friend Zeke. I watched giddily, as he now put on one of his mom's cheesy aprons, which read, "Kiss the Cook!" He danced around the kitchen, laughing while he gathered the ingredients. I pulled up a stool and sat, transfixed in all the elements that were needed to make the perfect nighttime snack.

"So, Chef Bolton," I asked calmly, "what are we making today?"

"BAM!" Troy was imitating Emeril, complete with fancy gestures and the occasional toss of his dark hair. "How about brownies? I'm really craving chocolate."

I smiled—Troy was _always_ craving chocolate. "All right, sounds good to me," I said.

"Step into my kitchen, Miss Montez, while I instruct you on how to make the ideal brownie," said Troy in a smooth, debonair, Mr. Suave voice. I laughed, getting off of the stool and coming up beside him.

"Okay, so I've already poured in the brownie mix for you." Troy gestured toward the large Tupperware bowl that rested on the counter, and then showed me to the freshwater sink. "Now, all you have to do is get the water. I'll give you the measurements—it says here, two and a half cups." I followed his instructions, and so it went.

By the time we were cracking the eggs, things were starting to get really messy. I'd dropped two eggs onto the floor, crushed another one with my fist, and accidentally got one all over Troy's mom's apron. Whoops, my bad.

But Troy, as usual, was easily amused. He teased and made fun of, all in good fun. We even turned on the radio, distracting ourselves from the brownies while we danced the night away. Frankly, I could remember this date in history for the rest of my life.

"You are such a dork!" Troy cried, playfully throwing some flour into my hair. We were covered in flour, brownie mix, and even a little smear of Landlakes butter. We looked a mess, but we were so enjoying this. This kind of date was exactly what I needed, after a long week at school. We were graduating in two weeks, and the exceedingly fun-but-stressful Prom Night was over, thank God. All we had to worry about, with the exception of a few SATs and finals, was over. Now we had all the time in the world to strengthen our relationship.

This was, truthfully, just what I needed right now.

Fifteen minutes later, after a messy incident with the mixer, Troy and I finally had our brownies set and ready-to-bake. We proudly placed them on the tray and into the warmth of the oven, like two parents watching their kid graduate from college. We never felt more relieved; it was over. But it had been a fun, memorable experience, baking brownies with my boyfriend.

Exhausted, we settled in chairs at the kitchen table, sitting quietly under the glow of a small white light bulb. After a moment's silence and catching our breath, Troy glanced across the table lightheartedly. "C'mere, you."

I smiled, all in good nature, and went up from my seat to his comforting arms. I sat on his lap, kissing him softly on the cheek. "So I've been wondering," he began.

"Hmm?"

Troy pondered for a moment, lapsing into a thoughtful silence. Finally he asked, calmly, "Gabriella, what is it that makes you attracted to me? I mean, really, what _is_ it?"

I turned to stare at him, confused. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm…I'm just curious," he mumbled.

I didn't know what to say. I thought for a minute, wondering what the answer was myself. Even _I_ didn't know. Finally I stuck with, "I can't. It's weird."

He doubted this, of course. "Love is always weird," he said. "But that's why it's so great."

This I had to agree upon. Smiling, I patted the top of his head, the way a teacher does when you've done something correctly. Pause, and I asked, "So what about you? What makes you, the great basketball jock, so attracted to me, the brainy science geek?"

"That. Just that," Troy answered almost automatically.

"What?"

"That, the way that you're so…smart. And beautiful. I've never known somebody so stunning, both in looks and personality. You're funny, you care about me, and you make me microwaveable Hot Pockets when I don't feel well." Troy took a deep breath and I laughed, while he continued, "You're sweet, Gabriella. I don't think I've ever told you this, but from the time I first sang with you that night at the ski resort, I knew we both shared something. Know what that is?" Troy was smiling now, his face breaking out into a huge grin.

"Tell me."

He waited a moment, and then murmured, "Chemistry."

I had to smile; this was an awfully sweet thing to say. "I knew it," I said. "I just knew it."

We relaxed, sitting contentedly, never wanting this to end. After a while Troy blurted aloud, "So you still haven't answered on your part, Gabs. What makes you, the amazingly beautiful dork, attracted to me, the basketball playmaker and next Chef Emeril?"

"Shut up," I teased, slapping him gently on the arm. He beamed, and I thought hard about my answer. I didn't know what to say, but I had to say it.

There was just something about Troy Bolton that made my heart do the flutters, flip over 360 degrees, and beat wildly. It was a feeling, a strong emotion, which spread throughout my body like an uncontrollable wave. I couldn't explain it, not in words. It just felt so _right_. "Well, you're really cute, Troy. And even though every girl in the world—or at EHS—might say that, I know for sure that I'm the _only_ one who really thinks it. Who really, really believes it."

My boyfriend grinned. "Of course you can't help but admire my astonishing good looks," he joked, stroking my hair.

"Hah! Right, of course," I told him, playing along, but I knew this was serious. "Truth be told, Troy, you're just wonderful. Amazing. You make me laugh, you're sweet and caring, and you make a mean beef stew." Troy's face lit up at this, and I smiled. "And there's something else, something I can't really explain. It's weird."

Troy wrapped his arms around my waist. "Tell me," he pleaded softly.

"I can't. It's indescribable."

"But you know what it is."

"Yes, I do," I said, shivering. Chills went up my spine as Troy's fingers brushed tenderly along my arm. "But I can't—I won't—tell."

A brief pause, and I realized that we were both thinking the same thing about each other. This was the start of something new. We were elapsing into a new, stronger phase of our relationship, admitting to each other and ourselves how much we truly cared. How much we loved, how we would die without each other. This was something different. We had at last matured from our high school "puppy love;" and something told me this was real. This was _it_.

The precious time went by slowly; I never wanted it to end. Outside, the rain fell and a cold wind shook the trees. Troy wrapped himself around me even tighter, his warmth covering me like a blanket. "You know what," he said quietly, "it doesn't even matter anymore. It doesn't really matter why you like me."

"Really."

"No," he repeated, moving his face closer to my flour-stained cheek. A flash of thunder and a roll of lightning sounded, but honestly, I could barely hear it. Troy was so close to me, his lips brushing my cheek, the smooth part of my face near to my ear. He kissed it softly, whispering, "Just the fact that you do."

**A/N:** I hope you liked! Please review; I'd really appreciate it (:


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